


The Shrike and the Thorn

by witchybusiness



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, I Tried, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 16:06:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19276735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchybusiness/pseuds/witchybusiness
Summary: I'm bad, sorry. Eventual smut, currently just angst, OC Apprentice. I've got this headcannon that every apprentice changes a lot between the romance routes. Like in appearance and demeanor, etc. Idk I'm just fucking around with this





	The Shrike and the Thorn

        " _What's wrong with her?_ " Asra gasps, and his heart breaks at the sight of her. If he could have cried more tears than he had already spilled today, he would have. She was pale, thin, and her bones stuck through her rice paper skin so tightly he could see the long lines of her veins pumping blood through her body. Her tattoos were gone, her once impossibly long red hair now short and ash gray, and she looked baptized in fire. Reborn again, though not in the way Asra had thought he agreed to. Everything about her was different, and yet the same. She still had her sweet button nose, the flaring cheekbones, the bottle green eyes. But instead of the usual spark of life and adventure he normally saw in them, they were empty. Lifeless. There was no spirit left in this shell.

 

_Astrid?_

 

        A hand curls over her shoulder, clawed hands digging into her ashen flesh. Whatever she had been wearing when they cremated her was gone now, and she sat slumped against the legs behind her naked like a newborn deer, too new to find her footing. Asra looks up from where he is now, collapsed onto the ground of the Devil's realm, clutching a hand over his aching chest. He felt less than himself, suddenly, like a piece of him had been torn asunder and he was left with the bleeding half.

 

        He looks up into the Devil's white, caprine face. His mouth is curled into a vindictive smile, pointed teeth flashing like knives through his thin black lips.

 

        "What did you _do_?" Asra croaks again, more disbelief than anger coloring his voice. His fingers clutch tightly at his chest, which burns, white hot, and he feels more than sees the light of it glowing from beneath his hand. He looks at Astrid now, and the Devil's fingers begin stroking her short hair like she's some sad, put down pet at his feet.

 

        "I did what you asked, Magician." The Devil crooned in a matter of fact voice, like he was explaining simple mathematics to a child much too old to not understand. His fingers suddenly tighten in Astrid's hair and he yanks her head back, exposing her front to Asra. Asra flushes in anger, and he fights the urge to cover her naked form up. A mark just like the one Asra now had on his chest flares to life before his eyes, nestled over her breast. It pulses, and Asra feels his own answer it's call. He sees a vein pulsing in her neck now, full of life. Her body, at least, is functional again. No longer the bone and ash that he had gouged out of the raw, smoldering earth. He had bled for her, cut himself to the bone, cut his hands on the ground so deeply he had scars for her.

 

        "I didn't ask for _this_." Asra gestures weakly to Astrid's pale form, chest pulled taut as her head is wrenched back so he can see the mark that connects them. Tears burn hot against his eyes again, and he chokes back his own sobs.

 

         "I wanted her _back_ . I want her _BACK_ ! I want _her_ , her _soul_ , not some shell you've animated!"

 

        The Devil smirks again, this time looking at Asra like he was a misbehaving dog.

 

        "Don't you see, magician? She _is_ back. I gave her half your heart, as we agreed upon. She'll come back to her body soon enough. It may take her soul some time to find it's way." He hums the words casually. He stops gripping Astrid's hair and releases her, stepping back into the shadows. She slumps to the ground, and to Asra's relief she lets out a grunt of pain. He rushes forward, on hands and knees, until he's hauling her body into his arms. He's sobbing now, angrily wiping away the tears from his eyes. He clutches her face between his hands, and he's shaking now, trembling entirely.

 

        "Our business isn't finished yet. I'll be back, magician." The Devil's voice fades, and the world around the two of them fades, until it's just Asra and her, two bodies sharing a single heart.

  
  
  


        She's cold by the time he manages to carry her back to the shop. He had wrapped her carefully in his own shirt and cloak, trying to cover her pale naked body. Her arms hung limply over his shoulders, her head tucked into his neck. He could feel the cool skin of her thighs wrapped around his waist as he carted her through the cobblestone streets of the city.

 

        The door to the shop was a blissful sight when it came into view just over the hill past the market. It was already unlocked, and Asra had to merely lean again the door to let himself in. He kicks the door shut and stumbles on the first step up the stairs, nearly dropping Astrid over the banister. He catches her, mid tumble, and drags her back up the stairs.

 

        He lays her down on their bed, as gently as he can, and collapses next to her. Every bone in his body is creaking, every muscle sore, and every ounce of patience he possessed was drained. He rolls onto his side, groaning at the exertion of it, and gazes across the tiny bed at Astrid.

 

        She's sleeping now, not looking like the corpse she had first seemed when the Devil had given her a new body. His own shirt on her is just a little too big, the deep plunging neck going down to her belly button. It exposed most of her chest, to which Asra is pleased to see moving with steady breaths. _She's sleeping, you can rest._

 

        But he can't rest. She's filthy, covered in ash and bone, and looks nearly starved to death. He sits up, snorting darkly. It would be quite the twist if the Devil were to have given her back, only to have her die of starvation before she made it home. He stops and looks at her, really _looks_ at her, for the first time since they arrived.

 

        She's home. She's home with him, where she should have always been. To the home where they had grown to love each other over the past six years. Where they had their first kiss. Where they had made love for the first (of hundreds) time. The home where he, in a rage unlike anything he had ever felt before, had stormed out of the house, bag in hand, cursing her name into the wind.

 

        He had never been that angry before. When she had told him she was going to stay, was going to try and find a cure for the plague, he had been furious. Two boat tickets were already in hand, he had plans for them. Go to Nopal, hike to the uninfected coast, leave for Prakra or Nevivon or even her homeland, the Isles of Fog. They had screamed at each other, the magical force of their argument had broken every object in the shop. It had brought red lightning down from the sky. It had killed Astrid's familiar.

 

        His heart drops. That, he thinks, was what he regrets the most. He had never let his anger get the best of him, but that argument nearly destroyed them. He hadn't mean to have done it, but by the time the dust settled, it was already gone. The little bat that Astrid had bonded with laid dead at their feet. Faust, thankfully, had been spared, along with the fire salamander they kept in the stove.

 

        Their relationship had died then as well. Astrid had called him too many names to count, Asra had claimed he never loved her, that she was too capricious to love. That had broken her. She had slammed the door into his face, and as he stormed off down the street, he knew she had been sobbing on the floor.

 

        It was this, Asra knows, that was his greatest failure. He had never valued her as much as he should have. Too comfortable with how long they had known each other.

 

        She had always been barely sixteen to him, still young and excited and incorruptible. He remembered seeing her for the first time, getting off a rocking ship in a stormy sea, not a hint of fear in her eyes. He remembered watching her around the market, darting around and buying things.

 

        "I've inherited the occult shop from my grandmother." She had told the baker, and he had gazed at her with wonder and interest as she hustled up towards that old, boarded up shop.

 

        He remembered asking in for the first time after she opened, and he knew that while she was powerfully magical, she had no patience, no learning.

 

        She hired him, and with his insistence, Muriel. Asra had taught her control, she kept them fed and housed. Muriel hadn't stuck around long, finding himself more comfortable in the forests than in the city. He asked Asra to come with him, but Asra was drawn back to the image of bottle green eyes and dark red hair.

 

        He remembered, to, the first time he knew he loved her. When they had sat together in the modest garden as a gentle storm started rolling in from the sea. She had pinned her dark red hair up with a starfish comb, and long twisting locks were cascading down her face and shoulders. He had been pining after her for weeks at that point. The rain was coming down around them, soft and grey, and they sat huddled together under a yew tree he had just planted. She leaned down and rested her head on his shoulder, running her pinky finger around the rim of her tea cup. He kissed her, then, tasting the peppermint tea on her tongue and drowning in the scent of her. He had done it so quickly, so impulsively, that when he pulled back in shock to look at her, he was surprised to see her grinning back at him.

 

        "I've been waiting for you to do that for weeks." She had murmured, and kissed him again. His heart had been consumed with her right then and there, surrounded in the gentle grey storm and the taste of peppermint tea.

 

        Asra had always had very poor impulse control. Astrid used to call it his "Irresponsible Gene". Right now, he thinks, crawling off the bed and going to run a bath, she had never been more right. Everything he had done, from partnering with Muriel to kissing Astrid and even to leaving her for his own safety, was done on an impulse. He had always done everything impulsively. He had dated impulsively, had sex impulsively, had lived his whole life impulsively, until he had met her. She had tamed the worst parts of his personality. With her, he was less impulsive, less likely to procrastinate, braver and stronger than he had ever been alone.

 

_Maybe that's why you gave up so much to bring her back. Then again, you didn't think about the consequences of that too long, either, did you?_

 

        He shakes the thoughts away, filling their modest tub with warm water. He jumps down the last three steps into the shop proper, grabbing a ritual bath bag and springing back up the stairs. He drops it into the water, and the scent of lavender, peppermint, althea, and rose spring to life around him.

 

        Getting her into the tub was easier said than done. She's completely limp, not waking in the slightest, and it's a struggle to pull his shirt off of her. He lowers her into the water, careful to keep her head above it. He takes the quiet moment to give her another look over. She had always been a little plump around her hips and thighs, but now she looked almost bony. The tattoos she had gotten the first year he knew her were gone now, and only pale scars seemed to linger where they had once been.

 

        Her hair, too, now that he was washing it, was no longer red at all. It was an ash gray, growing darker at the roots and lighter at the tips. Nothing he did to it would remove the color, and he threaded the shortened locks through his figures as he massaged them with soap. He leans down, kissing her forehead, and trying not to let the events of the day get to him too much. He had cried enough.

 

        But even as he thought that, he looked down into her limp form, completely different from who she used to be. He didn't know if she'd ever wake up, if she would ever remember what had happened. He rested a hand on her chest, and felt her heart beating steadily beneath it, completely in time with his own. Half of his own heart, his own soul, rested just under his hand. He had given up half of himself, for her.

 

        And as he started crying again for the hundredth time that day, he wasn't sure if he would live to regret it.


End file.
